


Afford Me Some Dignity

by LotteLenya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bullying, Dom/sub Play, First Time, Humiliation, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Riding Crop, S&M, Safewords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotteLenya/pseuds/LotteLenya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm so changeable!” Moriarty crooned into the pool area and basked in the sound of his own voice as it echoed off the walls, “Sherlock, I don't think you're taking me seriously.” His voice was almost a whine. </p>
<p>Sherlock shot him daggers which confirmed Moriarty's suspicions. Jim stalked towards Sherlock slowly with an almost timid expression on his face. </p>
<p>“What would you do,” he started wistfully, “If I told you to punch your beloved boyfriend in the face?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changeable

**Author's Note:**

> What if....Moriarty manipulated Sherlock into beating the daylights out of John? Sherlock has to clean up his mess and take care of John. Alcohol and pain and angst and comfort and ultimately lovely sadistic sex occur.
> 
> Apologies for formatting and any errors.

“I'm so changeable!” Moriarty crooned into the pool area and basked in the sound of his own voice as it echoed off the walls, “Sherlock, I don't think you're taking me seriously.” His voice was almost a whine.

Sherlock shot him daggers which confirmed Moriarty's suspicions. Jim stalked towards Sherlock slowly with an almost timid expression on his face.

“What would you do,” he started wistfully, “If I told you to punch your beloved boyfriend in the face.”

“I'd remind you that I don't have a -”

“OF COURSE YOU DO!” Jim shouted without drawing even the slightest start from Sherlock. John, on the other hand, flinched and pushed his back further against the wall.

“I'd say, no,” Sherlock said plainly, waiting to see where his nemesis was going with this line of questioning.

“Hmmm,” Jim mused, “Oh, Molly, my dear, won't you join us?”

“No, oh no” John said quietly.

Molly came out from the locker rooms and stood next to Jim, visibly shaking but unharmed. She looked up at Sherlock with desperation and fear in her eyes. He looked back with calm and reassurance.

“Let's try this again. You punch John, or I will punch Molly. What do you say?” he clapped his hands together gleefully. Of course this psychopath wasn't above hitting a woman.

There were tears streaming down Molly's face and for a moment Sherlock was frozen.

“Sherlock,” John said calmly, snapping Sherlock back into the moment, and added with cynicism in his voice, “Just do it.”  
John stepped towards Sherlock and held his hands up and open as an invitation.

“Why?” Sherlock looked from his best friend to his worst enemy.

“Why?” Moriarty shrieked with a smile, “I want you to have a taste. A taste of what it's like to have the heart burned right out of you.” He was nearly giggling.

Sherlock turned to John with a glimpse of an apology in his eyes and punched him in the cheek. John spun with a groan, but didn't fall, steadying himself on the wall and shaking the pain away. He was a soldier after all, which he reminded himself of silently as he set his jaw firm and the pain radiated outwards.

“Good! Now, this time, harder,” his voice was deeper now, scratching at Sherlock's convictions.  
Molly was openly sobbing.

“I'll stop when you make him sob like a little,” he nudged Molly, “girl.”

“Jesus,” John rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to sob. He couldn't make himself if he tried. And besides, Moriarty would know if he were faking. He'd sooner pass out from the pain or blood loss than cry in front of this asshole.

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded easily, “I'll do as you command, but you must let Molly leave. She shouldn't have to see this.”  
Jim thought a moment, “Well, all right! A private show! I like it. Run along.”

Molly looked pleadingly at Sherlock.

“We will be fine, Molly. Go to our flat. Mrs. Hudson will look after you until we arrive,” Sherlock's voice was falsely reassuring.  
Molly looked to John and stammered out, “I-I-I'm sorry.”

John gave her a weak smile, still calculating how they were going to reach the terms of Moriarty's demands. John started to consider the last time he cried outright. He couldn't put his finger on it, but each time he got closer something in his mind blocked it out.

“You can have Sherlock beat me all you want, but I won't sob. I can tolerate an awful lot of pain,” John said defiantly.

“Well then! He'll have to find another way, but,” his voice became a growl, “I want to see him break you.”

John shuddered visibly and blushed as Jim beamed at the desired effect of the statement.

The scope sights had disappeared but all three men knew their threat was still imminent and Sherlock wasn't calculating how to get out of the situation, but actually, truly, how to make John cry. He wanted this situation to end, this manipulation, he wanted to show Jim that he was heartless and couldn't be burned.

“Well, have at it then,” Jim said sitting himself nearby on the lifeguard's chair with a jaunty hop, “Oh, and I do so like the sight of blood! Please me,” he drawled.

“Do as he says Sherlock, just get this over with,” John shook himself again and continued to stare at the floor.

“Look at me, John,” Sherlock's voice was like a magnet. John looked up immediately, but could barely hold his gaze.

Sherlock quickly studied him, prying for a way to break the man without breaking the man wholly. There was no good way out of this situation. He only wanted to achieve the goal as fast as possible.

He shys away from eye contact at the threat of violence, he was bullied as a youth, asthmatic, short, stutter. Take the wind out of him. He played football and is an athlete but never talks about it, why? Bullied on the field? In the locker rooms? Bingo. Humiliation. Sherlock very nearly smiled at having figured out what he hoped would be an answer to this scenario before realizing what it actually meant he would have to do to his best friend.

“Get on with it, Sherlock,” John bit out.

Sherlock quickly and efficiently outlined the scenario in his head and then began the onslaught.

Split his lip, blood for Jim, pull knee to the gut, preserve organs, bruise ribs, again the face, disorient, black eye, knee to the groin, doubled up, arm behind back, shirt over head, hung on towel hook by underwear, don't dislocate shoulder.

John received a fierce blow to his face, opening his lip and leaving him bent over to spit blood. Sherlock quickly kneed John in the gut. Once, twice. John gasped and groaned around the pain, holding his ribs while he received another hit to the face that laid him out on the tile. Disoriented, he pushed himself to standing and took an unsuspected knee to the groin that doubled him over again. Jim was laughing in joy at the sight.

Sherlock quickly pulled John's arm behind his back and upwards causing the joint to tighten and John to let escape a series of “Ah! Ah! Ah!”'s as he stood on his tip toes to relieve the pressure. Reaching towards his belt Sherlock roughly untucked his shirt and pulled it up and over his head along with his sweater, locking his arm into place painfully against his back and pushing his other arm forward as the fabric tightened. Jim was clapping at this point and John muttered a futile “Sherlock, what-” before he felt those long fingers on the edge of his boxer briefs. “God, no.” Sherlock pulled upwards sharply with one hand and then quickly switched to two hoisting the smaller man into the air.

“Enough, Sherlock!” John whined out in misery and sheer humiliation. Sherlock was close. “Please!”

Sherlock hooked John's underwear onto a towel hook leaving him standing just barely on his toes with only one hand to steady himself from swaying. Jim was laughing so hard he was crying and slapping his knee. John's face was beat red and his lip was steadily bleeding along with the cut on the bridge of his nose. His bleeding lip was quivering and Sherlock was praying that this would be it. Jim's laughter was rattling between John's ears.

“Come on, you tosser,” Sherlock spat at him viciously.

This unfortunately made John subconsciously more defiant and Sherlock changed tactics to his very real dismay. “Oi, let's hear it, you pussy!” He shouted at his best friend as he wound up and punched his twisted shoulder out of his socket. John let out a bone rattling scream and against his will found himself gasping for air in broken sobs and chokes.

“There,” Sherlock's voice had changed back to neutral in an instant, “It's done. It's finished.”

Jim wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and hopped off the chair with an infuriating grin.

“Until we meet again, gentlemen. Oh, that made my day, “ Jim viciously patted John's shoulder as he walked by drawing a terrible scream from the already broken man.

The second Jim was out of sight Sherlock was at John's side.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry John, I'm sorry,” He muttered again and again and again as he carefully helped the man down cringing as he shrieked when his dislocated arm came loose of his shirt, “I'll take you to a hospital, god, I'm sorry, John. Forgive me, I'm so sorry,” Sherlock was babbling like he never had before.

“Take me home,” John managed, his face wet with tears, but his sobs subsided although his breathing remained uneven.

Sherlock looked at John a moment, tried to meet his eyes to gage whether or not it was a good idea to take him home, but John couldn't look at him, so he would have to take the man's word.

“All right, if that's what you want,” Sherlock took his scarf off and gently tucked John's hand into his buttoned shirt before wrapping it tightly to keep his shoulder from shifting. John was unbuttoning his pants.

“Back off a minute,” he said quietly.

Sherlock didn't want to, but he took a step back. This gave him too much of a view to assess John. He had really beaten the smaller man to a pulp. Luckily, John added, “Turn away.”

Sherlock did as he was told. John awkwardly adjusted his underthings with his good arm and struggled to button his pants with one hand. It was a lot easier to unbutton them.

“Sherlock, help me, please,” again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock looked him up and down quickly recognizing what John needed help with and he carefully buttoned his pants. John shifted uncomfortably at this intimate exchange. Sherlock swung John's good arm over his shoulder and supported the smaller man's weight as they walked out of the building. Once Sherlock had helped John to sit in the cab he rushed to the other side and demanded the driver get them home as fast as possible, tossing a handful of bills through the divider.  
After a moments silence, Sherlock said again with a sincerity rarely witnessed, “I'm so sorry, John. I never wanted to hurt you.”

John's eyes were closed, his head back on the seat, he whispered, “It's okay. You did-we both did, what we had to do.”

Each step up to their apartment was a trial and Sherlock supported most of John's weight. He may as well have just carried the man. Mrs. Hudson and Molly sat at the table sipping tea as they entered.

“Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson, please take Molly,” he helped John sit on the couch carefully.

“Oh, John, no,” Molly said about seeing him. She burst into tears again.

“Oh dear! You poor thing! Sherlock, he needs a hospital!” Mrs. Hudson fussed.

“I'm all right, ladies, please, do as Sherlock asked,” he said as gently as he could muster.

Sherlock was already in the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, pulling together supplies, packing ice into bags and wrapping them in towels. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from the freezer and handed it to John first.  
John took a swig and then set the bottle delicately between his legs, cringing as he did so.

“Let me get the swelling down a moment and then you can relocate my shoulder,” John said, he was getting more of his voice back.

“Whatever you say, doctor,” Sherlock was not being patronizing.

He sat in front of his best friend and tended as gently as he could manage to the wounds he had caused. He tucked a piece of clean gauze between his lip and gums and gave him another to wipe the cut on his nose. He lay a bag of ice over John's ribs where his knee had connected, and a smaller pack over his right eye. When he felt he had done all he could for the moment he stood and paced the apartment, climbing over the table and walking into the bedroom, again and again until

John declared, “I'm ready.”

He gingerly removed all the ice packs and lay the gauze on the table. He took Sherlock's hand to help him sit up and lean forward.

“May I have your belt?”

Without thinking Sherlock took his belt off and handed it to John. He didn't ask what it was for.

“Stand behind me. Put your right hand on the back of my shoulder, yes, your palm, like that, good. Your left palm over here,” he pointed with his good hand, “And then you'll just have to push and pull as hard as you can, and quickly, Sherlock I don't want to do this twice.”

“On three,” Sherlock said, feeling uncomfortable at having to hurt his friend again, the sweat beading by his brow.

John folded the belt and stuck it between his teeth.

“One-” Sherlock pushed and pulled with all his might.

John's scream sent a pike into Sherlock's heart, but it was brief and then came gasping breaths of relief as John dropped the belt from between his teeth. Sherlock gingerly released John from his grip, allowing John a moment to ride out the blinding pain without distraction.

“Ice,” he said at last, reaching futilely towards the table.

Sherlock was in front of him in a flash gently holding the ice to his shoulder. He was met with another bone rattling scream from his best friend.

“Fuck,” John spat out.

Sherlock again wrapped his scarf around John's shoulder to secure his arm, surprised by how much focus it took to keep his hands from shaking as he did so.

John took another long swig from the whiskey bottle before again placing it between his legs to another cringe. Sherlock was beginning to think hospital would have been a better decision. John tilted his head back and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened one as he felt he was being watched. Sherlock was standing stock still two steps from the couch looking about as uncomfortable as was possible for the man. He watched John shift awkwardly around the bottle and his eyes lit up. He turned and ran to his bedroom returning with a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a zip up hoodie.

“What are you on about?”

“You'll be more comfortable,” Sherlock said matter of factly as he knelt to untie John's shoes.

“Afford me some dignity will you, and shut the blinds before you try to disrobe me in our living room,” John was trying to be funny but Sherlock tensed and jumped up to pull the blinds.

He stood a moment by the window with his head dropped.

“He did it,” he said succinctly.

“Did what?”

“He showed me. How it feels.”

“What do you-”

“To have the heart burned out of my chest!” Sherlock shouted and pounded a fist into the molding making John jump, “I'll die before I bring you to tears again.”

John was glad Sherlock's back was to him because he felt his cheeks and ears flush at that statement. He should have known that Sherlock would be able to deduce the last time John's spirit was broken just by watching him consider it himself. He knew he must have given off signals, but he couldn't imagine what they were. The embarrassment that John was willing away kept creeping back each time he shifted painfully. The whiskey was starting to help at least.

“I told you Sherlock, it's ok. I'm all right. We'll handle that childish maniac in time. But right now, will you help me into these? Please?” John knew that Sherlock needed to feel useful, and redeemed.

He turned around and knelt in front of John again as the smaller man unbuttoned his pants. He used his good arm to push himself up as Sherlock slid his pants down. He surprised John by also hooking a finger in his underwear.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

“What's wrong? I assumed they were ruined” Sherlock stopped halfway.

“You keep forgetting about my ever diminishing dignity,” John reached for a throw pillow to cover himself.

Sherlock looked at him critically as if to say, “Really? Who cares?”

He continued to slide down the man's pants and quickly pulled the soft flannel onto his friend. The strain of lifting himself even just those two inches with his arm made John weak. His ribs ached furiously and he was having to remember to breath. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like those long fingers sliding up and down his legs, but in the scheme of things, the pain was more present.

“I need a minute,” John said reluctantly holding a hand up as Sherlock moved to unbutton his shirt.

Nodding, Sherlock turned to the kitchen and cleared what he could off of the stove, exposing one burner. He put a kettle on, and John was transfixed by this uncharacteristic behavior. Was Sherlock really making him tea?

“I'm getting the royal treatment. I should let you publicly humiliate me every day,” he said closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the couch.

“You mean to say I don't already?” Sherlock managed a joke at last.

“Right, good point,” John said with a tiny smile, “So, what will it take then?”

Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

“To get you to make me tea more often?”

Sherlock didn't respond, but smiled almost shyly at John as the kettle started to whistle. He brought two cups over and set them on the table. He took the bottle of whiskey from between John's legs and put a splash in each of their cups before moving to unbutton John's shirt without his permission. John didn't stop him.

“You don't drink during cases,” John noted.

“I don't have to face my worst enemy and beat on my best friend often either,” he said taking a test sip before adding more whiskey.

John was quiet a moment, hoping Sherlock would continue. Sherlock carefully helped John lean forward and take the bloodied shirt off. John bit his bottom lip as the pain radiated through his shoulder, feeling the wound open again and blood pool against his teeth. Sherlock slipped the sweatshirt onto John, zipping it up in the front and even pulling the hood up over the smaller man's head. He cringed at the sight of the bruises that were growing on John's ribs, and John noticed. Out of gauze, Sherlock held a napkin to John's lip, his thumb resting just slightly at the corner of John's mouth. John shyly took the napkin from Sherlock's hand and muttered his thanks. After another drag from the spiked tea, Sherlock sat next to his friend and continued.

“If I could have seen any other way out of it, any other way, John, I wouldn't have – “ he shook his head in frustration.

“Sherlock,” John's voice was soothing, the whiskey taking care of most of the pain at this point, “You did the right thing. Let's just hope you never have to do it again. He made his point.”

“Yes, but I fear he enjoyed it too much to let it go,” Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth as his brain worked out the various systems he would have to set up to protect those close to him. John noticed.

“It's late. Let's finish our tea, and forget about this nonsense for the evening. We'll both feel better after a night's rest,” John was reluctant to say sleep, wondering if either of them would be able to.

“You'll feel worse,” Sherlock blurted out, “Unless you intend to drink whiskey all day tomorrow as well.” He raised the bottle and took a swig.

John chuckled at that and it made his ribs ache. Sherlock was right, but for now at least they were both in one piece, for the most part. John looked towards the stairs to his bedroom and juggled with the idea of climbing those on his own. He decided to just sleep on the couch. He gently lifted his legs and shifted his weight so that his knees were bent on the couch, toes touching Sherlock's thigh and head resting on the arm of the couch. He groaned as he adjusted, but sighed in relief once settled. Sherlock thoughtfully patted the top of John's foot, and it almost made the smaller man laugh.

Surprising even himself, John was asleep within moments, looking awfully childlike Sherlock silently noted, with the hood up over his head. Sherlock's phone buzzed quietly.

What do you need? -M  
Sherlock replied.  
Moriarty dead. -SH  
He is on a plane to Belize. That will have to wait. -M

Sherlock grit his teeth, but also felt a momentary relief that for now at least Moriarty was out of their hair. He knew how far reaching that grip was, but after that display of his power, Sherlock knew he would back off. At least for a while. And although he would never admit it, Sherlock was comforted by the fact that Mycroft had texted him in the first place. Sherlock thought a moment before texting again.

Shoulder sling. Gauze. Alcohol. Food. -SH

He closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Sherlock stood, careful not to disturb John, and pulled a blanket from the back of the chair across from the couch. He lay it gently on his sleeping friend, who stretched his legs out after Sherlock stood. It was only then that he noticed his own hand was covered in dried blood, his knuckles swollen and one split open. He bit back a shiver and moved to the sink. As he ran the water over his hands a thought occurred to him, Molly. He dried his hand and crept quietly down the stairs into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Molly was seated in a recliner with a blanket pulled over her shoulders. Mrs. Hudson must have been in bed. It was nearly two in the morning after all.

“Molly,” Sherlock said quietly so as not to alarm her of his presence.

She looked over at him and her eyes instantly welled up.

He sat across from her and put his hands on her knees. She stilled at this odd contact and said, “I thought you'd forgotten about me.”

“No, dear. John – I had to - he's asleep now,” Sherlock was surprised at himself for fumbling.

He took his phone out of his pocket and texted quickly.

A car for Molly. Protection. -SH

“Is he going to be all right?” she nearly whispered.

“Yes, of course. I was careful not to do any permanent physical damage. He may have a few scars though since he refused to go to the hospital.”

Molly was quiet a moment before chancing, “You're afraid he'll be mad at you?”

“No. He's spent most of the night assuring me he is not angry. I do worry he'll be, humiliated.”

Molly thought a moment about what that meant.

“Molly, I'm sorry. That you became involved.”

“I still don't understand it. He must have known that you don't,” she paused, “don't even like me.”

“Molly. Of course I like you. He knew I'd protect you even though -”

“Even though you love John.”

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat, and he was speechless. Molly, in her infinite sweetness, didn't even relish in this unlikely moment, but instead spoke softly.

“It's not a secret, Sherlock. I'm sorry he put you in that position. Are you all right?”

Sherlock looked at her carefully, but read no condescension, sarcasm, or alterior motives in her voice or body language. Molly was a very sincere and genuine person, and Sherlock was so unused to that he often tried to force more out of her than there was. He silently cursed his insensitivity and the times he dismissed her.

“I am,” he thought a moment, “coping. I don't like -”

Sherlock stopped and shook his head as though trying to shut himself up and simultaneously wondering why he was spilling his guts in the first place.

“Go on,” Molly encouraged.

“I don't like seeing him in pain,” he said quickly with a cough at the end as punctuation.

Molly nodded with understanding. “At least now you have a chance to take care of him.”

Sherlock hadn't thought about it like that, couldn't. They both looked towards the window at the sound of a car pulling up.

“That's for you,” he said, “I'm sure you want to be home.”

“No, not particularly,” she said honestly, but stood to leave no less.

Sherlock thought a moment. He didn't have the heart to send her away after the night they'd shared, but he was feeling oddly vulnerable in her presence. With John on the couch she could have John's room.

“All right,” Sherlock nodded much to Molly's surprise, “Help me with these groceries, will you?”

“Groceries?”

Sherlock opened the door to a stranger holding two bags of groceries. He took them from him as he went back to the car for two more. Molly took the first two upstairs quietly as Sherlock sent the man away saying the ride was no longer necessary. Halfway up the stairs with the bags Sherlock's phone buzzed.

May I sleep now? -M

Sherlock made a mental note to petulantly text Mycroft in the middle of the night just to wake him up when really what he should be doing was thanking him. Molly found herself frozen after placing the bags on the kitchen table, staring at John. He was asleep on the couch still, his face scrunched in pain, breathing uneven, and a slight shiver overtaking him. She took a deep breath and focused on unpacking the bags.

Sherlock placed his down next to hers and they silently moved about the messy kitchen. Mycroft had provided them with a standard supply of rations and a few of Sherlock's favorites. He also put a bottle of rubbing alcohol next to a bottle of Glenfiddich. Sherlock crooked a small smile at that. Sherlock took the gauze wrap from the final bag and began to clumsily wrap his swollen knuckles. The cuts on them were small and the gauze was unnecessary, but Sherlock couldn't stand to look at them. Without a word, Molly took the gauze from him and wrapped his hand tightly, tucking the end into his palm in lieu of tape. Sherlock squeezed her hand in gratitude. Still holding her hand, he led her upstairs to John's room, closing the door behind them.

“John can't make it up the stairs, you may have his room tonight,” he said glancing around at John's impeccably well kept room. He flipped on the lamp by John's bed and opened John's top drawer. He pulled out a white t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants and lay them on the edge of the bed. He moved swiftly to John's closet and found a spare blanket which he intended to bring back down to John.

“Should you need anything, I will be downstairs,” Sherlock said, a little awkwardly realizing he was stating the obvious.

Molly wrapped her arms around the tall man suddenly and he breathed out a sigh of exasperation, but quickly returned the favor although the handful of blankets made it significantly less effective. Sherlock had certainly hugged people before, he was sure of it, but he felt in that moment that it may as well have been the first time.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Molly said quietly, “Thank you.”

She closed the door behind him as he padded softly down the steps. He stood by the table, unraveling the sling that Mycroft, or more likely one of his men, had procured for him. Sherlock debated trying to put the sling on John while he slept. It would definitely help support the man's shoulder, but waking him up may be traumatic considering the current pain he was in. He stood like this, toying with the sling, for about five minutes. Damn it all he wished John had just let Sherlock take him to the hospital, then at least he would be on substantial medication for the pain. At the same time, John must have known that and still he preferred 221B Baker St. Sherlock tried to find comfort in this thought, but the pained expression John was making made that impossible.

Sherlock lay the second blanket over John as gently as he could manage. John didn't flinch and his shivering didn't stop. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table watching John for almost two hours. He replayed the events of the night again and again in his head until finally he couldn't take it any longer. John let out a groan that sent chills up Sherlock's spine. He collected the sling, an ice pack, and some aspirin and moved to kneel next to his best friend.

“John,” he said quietly. John groaned again, pulling his knees up.

“John, wake up, it's Sherlock,” he gently stroked the hair behind John's ear, the only place he could touch without fear of causing the smaller man more pain.

John stirred and weakly opened his eyes. His right one was nearly swollen shut at this point.

“John, you should sit up and take these painkillers. Let me help you into the sling so you can rest more easy,” he said without touching John.

John nodded, and scooted miserably to a sitting position, biting back groans as he did so. Sherlock first slipped the sling onto John, tightening it to ease the pressure of gravity on John's shoulder. John sighed in relief and Sherlock felt a pang of triumph in his chest.

“Sherlock, this couch is dreadful, will you help me to my bed?” John said, voice soft with sleep.

“Molly is asleep in your bed, I'm afraid, but I will help you to mine, as I have no intention of using it,” Sherlock said, quickly cataloging the things he would need to clear off of his bed.

John grunted in approval but added lazily, “You should sleep. It must be late.”

Sherlock handed John a cup of water and the aspirin, which John took appreciatively.

“How does your shoulder feel? Would ice help?”

“I suppose I ought to,” John said reluctantly, “Help me to bed first?”

“Yes,” Sherlock helped John swing his legs over the side of the couch.

He stood on John's good side and helped him stand carefully. John's hood was falling half off of his head and his ears looked adorably large. Sherlock shuffled John to his bedroom and sat him on a clean edge of the bed with the icepack on his shoulder as he hurriedly cleared the clutter away.

“D'you ever sleep in here?” John looked around drearily.

“Rarely,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock turned down the covers, and John scooted into the bed sitting up just a bit. He sighed deeply.

“If you need anything, I'll just be out here,” Sherlock said standing near the door.

“Doing what?” John asked and Sherlock didn't answer, “Playing the night over and over again? Plotting a way to destroy him?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock admitted.

“Don't bother,” John said, “Come, get some sleep.”

John pulled down the covers next to him and slid further down the bed. Sherlock stood frozen by the doorway, the prospect of laying in bed next to John as soothing a thought as intimidating.

“Sherlock?” He asked with his eyes closed, unsure of whether the detective had come towards the bed or was leaving the room.

“Yes.”

“Where did this sling come from?”

“Mycroft. He sent groceries, too. I'll make you breakfast if you get some more sleep,” Sherlock said.

John smiled, “I'll eat your breakfast if you get some sleep.”

Sherlock smiled in the dark and decidedly slid his pants off. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled a clean undershirt on. He could use a shower, he thought reluctantly before climbing under the sheets next to John, remaining nearly a foot away from him still. After a moment's silence, Sherlock spoke hesitantly. The darkness and warmth of the bed making him bold enough to broach the subject.

“John?”

“Yes,” he replied, sounding more awake than Sherlock anticipated.

“I find myself quite afraid that this night will have changed your feelings towards me,” Sherlock winced at how indelicate and childish that sounded.

“As the man that knows me better than I know myself, you should already know that will not be the case,” John tried to sound reassuring.

“I put on a good show, but you've always been the hardest person to read,” he admitted.

“Nothing will change, Sherlock. Things could have been much worse. At this moment, I'm just glad to be home with you.”

Sherlock smiled at that, but still felt unsettled. He shifted slightly under the covers. John's good arm slid over to Sherlock and bumped his elbow. He moved it down to his forearm and squeezed.

“I do owe you a good thrashing, but fear not, I still love ya,” he said.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat for the second time that night and he felt lightheaded. He heard himself laughing lightly, even though it felt as if he couldn't breath. John's hand remained on Sherlock's forearm as the two lay in momentary silence.

“Now get some sleep, stop worrying,” John squeezed his arm again but still didn't lift his hand.

Sherlock made a small grunt of agreement and closed his eyes. He felt grounded by John's hand on his arm. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and did the same for John. He thought fleetingly that maybe he would be able to fall asleep after all, and then immediately did.


	2. Did I Stutter?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, a second opinion, and a first kiss.

John woke up to a wrenching pain in his shoulder. He also felt as though there was a ton of bricks resting on his ribcage. He looked down in the dim light of the morning to find Sherlock's arm tossed lazily across his torso and his face buried into John's good shoulder. John smiled through the pain, because this was a sight he never expected to see, not in a million years. He carefully inched himself up so that the headboard supported his injured shoulder a bit, and he readjusted the sling. His mouth tasted of copper and dried blood and he was dying to go brush his teeth, but he couldn't bring himself to climb out of bed. Not just yet anyway. He heard somebody in the kitchen and felt a momentary panic before remembering that Molly had spent the night. He listened carefully and heard her sit at the kitchen table and clink her spoon lightly in a teacup, which eased the paranoia that maybe it was Moriarty anyway.

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and cataloged his injuries. His shoulder was throbbing, but relocated with no hint of dislocating. His ribs were not broken, but badly bruised for sure, and Sherlock's thin, but sleep heavy arm wasn't doing him any favors. The considerable ache in his groin had subsided and given way to what John realized was a slightly embarrassing morning erection. He reached a hand up to his nose and eye. His nose and eye socket were unbroken, but the swelling around his eye made it hard for him to open it completely. He felt around the wound on his nose and decided it needed a bandage, but not stitches. John estimated that he'd be back in working condition in under a week, fighting condition in three. He had refused to let Sherlock take him to a hospital in order to downplay just how bad it really was. He was worried that Sherlock wouldn't be able to live with himself if he put John in the hospital.

John tensed as the door to Sherlock's room squeaked open a crack and a tiny, “Hello?” came through followed by Molly's head.

John didn't have time to react and only saw Molly cringe and mouth “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” before holding up a hand and closing the door. John rolled his eyes, another tick to add to the “I swear I'm not gay” list. John shifted and Sherlock moaned, actually moaned, something between ecstasy and pain.

“Sherlock?” John whispered and vehemently refused to acknowledge the surge of blood to his cock at that sound, “You all right?”

The pain on his ribs was becoming a problem, as was his swollen cock, so John carefully tried to slide out from under the sleeping Sherlock. With only one good hand and very little leverage, John didn't make it far before Sherlock woke up.

“Mm,” he said palming an eye and sitting up on his elbow. His curls were in disarray and if John weren't so intent on hiding his erection, he would have ruffled Sherlock's hair, “Hullo.”

“Hello,” John said back.

“Did I -” Sherlock started, “Are you – Was I -”

“I'm fine,” John said, “Just need to brush my teeth. Help me up, ya?”

Sherlock sat up and stretched, looking much like a cat. He swung his legs off the bed and came around to John's side. He had forgotten that he was wearing only boxer briefs and an undershirt when he caught John staring.

“I'll put – should I put trousers on? Would that make you more comfortable?” Sherlock sounded sleepy and nonchalant and it tugged at John's heart.

“It's fine, just help me up,” John held his hand out to Sherlock who took it and helped him stand.

“Ta. Molly made tea. She thinks we're lovebirds, now,” he said as he shuffled out as quickly as he could manage in his state.

Sherlock stood for a moment in his bedroom staring at his bed. It was clear that he had shifted during the night, and he was beginning to wonder if he had taken up John's side of the bed. He ran his hand across the sheets and felt the mattress' give. He jumped back into bed and placed himself in the position he was in when he woke up, concluding that he had, in fact, invaded John's space. He shrugged to himself and put on his dressing gown before heading to the kitchen.

“Morning,” Molly said, “Kettle's just boiled.”

“How are you?” Sherlock asked uncharacteristically.

“Oh, I'm fine. Thank you for letting me stay. My sister should be here any minute to pick me up. I'm going to stay with her a while.”

Sherlock nodded, pouring himself and John a cup of tea. John emerged from the bathroom and gratefully took the tea from Sherlock, noting that this was the second time he had done that in less than 24 hours.

“John, you should have a doctor take a look at you,” Molly said, eyes widening upon seeing him.

“I am a doctor and I took a look at me,” he said with a small smile, “I'm fine.”

“I'm sorry I walked in on you two before, I just, you weren't on the couch and I thought maybe something had happened,” she said quickly.

“No worries,” John said without further explanation.

A horn sounded from in front of the flat, “That's her,” Molly noted.

“If you need anything, don't hesitate to call,” Sherlock offered.

Molly beamed and showed herself out.

“I'll set to making that breakfast I promised you,” Sherlock muttered to himself taking the eggs from the refrigerator. He had pointedly avoided looking at John since he appeared from the bathroom. In the stark light of day, he wasn't sure he could handle seeing his best friend in pieces.

John smiled, genuinely surprised that Sherlock had remembered his intent to prepare breakfast, “All right. I need a shower.”

Sherlock nodded, still facing the fridge, busying himself needlessly. He knew precisely where the butter was. When he heard the bathroom door click shut he took his phone from his pocket and sent a text.

John needs a second opinion. Our flat ASAP. -SH

Meanwhile, John pulled a towel from the closet in the bathroom. As the water became warm he reluctantly cleaned out his lip and the cut on his nose with alcohol, wincing as he did so, glad Sherlock wasn't watching him anymore. He felt instant relief when he stood under the warm spray. The muscles around his shoulder loosened and he put his forehead to the tile, relishing the feeling for as long as he could, knowing he shouldn't take too long since Sherlock was making him breakfast.

Sherlock had set about making the best eggs and toast he could conceive of. His monstrous brain slowing down just enough that he wasn't taking a completely scientific approach to the process of cooking. He even pulled two matching plates from the cabinet and brewed fresh tea in the actual pot. He heard the water shut off and calculated how long it would take for John to come back into the kitchen. He slid the eggs from the skillet onto the plates just a split second before he heard the bathroom door open and John softly padding down the hallway. He turned with the two plates in hand just in time to see John step into view wearing only a towel and a small bandaid over the cut on his nose.

Sherlock stilled a moment and felt his right hand begin to shake at the sight before him. John's ribs were a dreadful shade of purple and the black eye was truly shining. His injured arm was hugged tight across his stomach. John saw the plate wobble almost imperceptibly and stepped forward to help, but Sherlock quickly put them on the table and turned back to the sink washing his hands as though it were the most important thing in the world.

“Sherlock, how many times will I have to tell you that I'm all right before you believe me?” John asked gently, reading the man the way he had been taught. He saw Sherlock's pupils dilate and his mouth drop slightly open as he scanned over the vicious bruises on John's ribcage and the black eye that made him look so much younger.

“Hm?” Sherlock said as though the running water was too loud to hear John's clear voice.

“I'll go put some clothes on and then we can eat,” John said with defeat in his voice and then added with a hint of a smile before walking away, “Your hair looks ridiculous.”

Sherlock turned the water off and braced himself on the edge of the sink. He smiled with his eyes if not with his lips. He pointedly did not touch his hair, but looked sidelong at his reflection in the window as he passed. John walked up the stairs to his room slowly. Sherlock tapped his foot nervously at how long it was taking John to return. He was about to call up to the man when he heard his door close and his soft footsteps pad back downstairs.

“I need a hand,” John said sheepishly on the last step.

Reluctantly Sherlock looked up. John had a sweater on halfway. He couldn't get his injured shoulder into the sleeve. His face was flushed red and there were beads of sweat at his brow from the effort.

“I don't like having to ask,” he started when Sherlock didn't move, “I know you're upset-”

“It's fine, just tell me what to do,” Sherlock said standing quickly.

“I can get my arm to here,” he raised his elbow within inches of being horizontal with his shoulder, “But I can't extend it any further to pull the shirt down. It's just stiff. You won't do any more damage.”

Sherlock winced visibly at that and John opened his mouth to apologize but Sherlock just grunted in understanding and gently wrapped his slender fingers just below John's elbow. John grit his teeth and readjusted his footing. Sherlock pulled the sweater out and lifted John's arm as slowly as possible, each fraction of an inch feeling the tightening of John's other muscles as the pain of the abused shoulder radiated through his chest. Sherlock slipped John's arm into the sleeve and raised it another two inches to get the shirt on. John inhaled a shaky breath that exhaled as a groan.

“You ought to have chose a button down,” Sherlock spoke over John's pained, bitten back groan.

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” he said breathlessly, “Good then, thank you,” ducking his head slightly as Sherlock slipped the sling over him.

The two men sat at the table together.

“Thank you for breakfast,” John said picking up his fork.

“No trouble,” Sherlock lied thinking that he'd need to buy more eggs having used the whole carton to make them perfect.

Sherlock wondered if he should tell John about the text he sent, but thought it better to let him enjoy breakfast before doing so.

“Christ, Sherlock, this is delicious. You should open a restaurant,” John gushed.

Sherlock grinned slightly despite himself, although he hadn't taken a bite of his food yet.

“Aren't you going to eat?”

“I'm not hungry,” Sherlock said unconvincingly.

The doorbell rang before John could protest. John's eyebrows quirked, but Sherlock said quickly, “You eat, I'll see to it.”

He hurried down the stairs and opened the front door. He was greeted by a very chipper Sarah.

“Hello, Sherlock!” She smiled at him.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he replied.

“I was in the neighborhood, plus I've missed being involved, however little, with your cases since John and I split,” there was no awkwardness in her voice. The two were still amicable coworkers.

“Yes, well, this is a touch different. John may not be happy to have your opinion,” Sherlock admitted.

“Why is that?” She asked suspiciously.

“Because he is the patient,” Sherlock began climbing the stairs ahead of her.

Her mouth was dropped open slightly as she hurried up the stairs after him.

John stood at the sink rinsing his plate when the two walked in.

“John,” Sarah said and the man turned suddenly at her voice, wincing at the pain it caused, “What happened?”

Before he could say a word she was in front of him, hands on his face, tilting, examining.

“Sarah, Sarah, slow down!” John grabbed one of her wrists with his good hand, “Just, hands off, all right?”

“Sorry, Christ, who did this to you?” she asked fiercely.

John didn't speak, but glanced at Sherlock who was standing on the other side of the room stiffly. Sarah turned and looked at him and then back at John who shook his head, but still hadn't found his voice. As she turned back and moved quickly towards Sherlock, John spat out, “It's complicated!”

Sarah slapped Sherlock across the face, opening a small cut on his cheekbone. He barely acknowledged the strike, maybe expecting it? Maybe looking forward to it? Punishment to match his guilt?

“Sarah! Don't touch him!” John moved more quickly than he should have and stood in front of Sherlock, his smaller frame doing little to hide the taller man from Sarah. “Sit down!” He ordered pointing to the couch, “And we'll explain.”

Anger still consumed her face, but she sat down, eyes still glaring at Sherlock who remained standing, head angled down examining the floorboards.

“You two will be the death of me,” John muttered, turning to Sherlock.

He put his hand on Sherlock's chin, but Sherlock flinched away mumbling, “It's fine.”

John more firmly cupped Sherlock's face and tilted his head down for a better look at the cut.

“Cut your nails, woman, you're like a bloody cat,” John noted lightly.

Sherlock's face was turning slightly red at this contact and John noticed it immediately.

“Did you call her?” He asked, releasing Sherlock.

“No. I texted her,” he said quietly.

John rolled his eyes, “I told you I didn't need to see a doctor.”

“Right, because I'm sure you did a self check to make sure your ribs are in tact? Oh and who is doing your physical therapy for that shoulder?” Sarah shot over to the conversation, uninvited.

John sighed heavily. “Will it calm you both down if I let Sarah look me over?”

He was really asking if it would make Sherlock feel better, more at ease. He nodded.

“Right, fine. I'm going to get some gauze. You tell Sarah what happened. And you, you keep your hands off of him,” the last part came off as more possessive than protective.

John went to the bathroom and closed the door behind him, drowning out the beginnings of the story he knew the end to. He stood in front of the mirror a moment before splashing water on his face. He was trying hard not to be mad at Sherlock for calling (texting) Sarah, but the last thing he wanted was another friend seeing him in this position. John dried his face and pulled the freshly stocked first aid kit from the cabinet. He entered the room as Sherlock was wrapping up, telling Sarah quickly and succinctly how they relocated his shoulder.

John sat on the arm of the chair that Sherlock was sitting in. He took a piece of gauze from the kit and gestured for Sherlock to open the antiseptic bottle. Sherlock did so and poured a bit onto the gauze. Sarah sat back processing the information she was just given and watching John carefully as he moved.

“This will sting,” John said before wiping the blood from Sherlock's cheek and applying light pressure to the wound with the gauze.

Sherlock blinked and his jaw tensed, but he didn't feel he had any right to be visibly distressed considering how little pain this was compared to the pain he inflicted on John.

“Sorry, then, Sherlock,” Sarah said at last, “For that.”

“I deserve much worse,” Sherlock said abruptly standing.

“Sherlock, come on,” John spat out exasperated, “Get back here, you ponce, I need to put a bandaid on that. Or would you rather I chase after you?”

Sherlock walked back slowly and tolerated John's practiced fingers applying a small bandage to his cheek.

“All right, John your turn. We'll need to take that sweater off,” she said standing.

“Christ, I just spent ten minutes getting it on,” John whined, “You're not getting off that easy,” John said to Sherlock who had backed away again, “Help me out of this.”

Sherlock looked relieved to offer assistance. He gently removed the sling and noted the hardened resolve in John's eyes as he prepared for the pain of removing the shirt.

“It will be easier to get off than on, and then you can wear a button down. Or a t-shirt. It's not cold,” Sherlock was nearly muttering as he helped John's good arm out of the sweater and carefully slipped it over his head and off his bad arm without causing John any pain.

“Oh my god,” Sarah blurted out seeing the dark bruises across John's abdomen.

“No, just my Sherlock,” John winked, but Sherlock wasn't ready for jokes.

He ducked his head and backed away a step letting Sarah step forward. John kept his arm tucked across his ribs, covering the worst of the bruises.

“They are not broken,” John spoke as Sarah touched lightly around the edges of the bruises, walking her fingers around in tightening circles to feel for breaks.

“Did you check that with the x-ray machine you have under the sink?” Sarah joked as she applied pressure towards the center causing John's to buckle and take a step back, “Sit down, then, if you're going to squirm.”

“Please, don't bother with the bedside manner for me,” John joked anxiously, but obeyed, sitting in the arm chair with some effort.

Sherlock's eyes were boring holes into his skull. He practically felt them pulsing all over his body and he suddenly wished he had his shirt back on.

“Will you get me a shirt, Sherlock?” He asked gently.

Sherlock moved swiftly up the stairs.

“Quickly, will you? Before he gets back,” John muttered.

She understood. She again walked her fingers along his bruised ribcage and applied the pressure that made him try to flee. He pulled back into the chair, but she continued applying the pressure and walking her fingers with more focus than before. John bit his lips and gripped the arm of the chair to keep from groaning.

“Well, you're right. They aren't broken.”

“Thanks, doc,” John said and absently wiped away the sweat that was beading his brow.

Sherlock reappeared with a baggy t-shirt and a dark button down shirt in his hands.

“Stand up,” Sarah requested, “I want to check the range of motion in your shoulder.”

John grimaced as he stood. He took a deep breath as she gently lifted his arm. She rotated it slowly in small circles and continued in larger circles until he bit out unexpectedly, “Guh-stop!” She did, still holding his arm out. Sherlock stopped breathing a moment. His heart clenching at John's demand. John's chest was heaving and his eyes were shut tight.

“You should have done this when you first woke up, you know. Or after a shower. Come on, doctor,” she chastised him lightly before rotating again without warning. He crooked his head to the side, face scrunched in pain and bit back the desire to beg her to stop, to go, to leave him alone. Fury rolled up Sherlock's body starting at his toes.

“He said stop,” Sherlock spoke curtly.

“He's fine. Besides it will be much better in the long run. The longer you wait, the worse it will be. You know that,” she nodded towards John who nodded back, eyes still slammed shut as she brought his arm forward and crossed it against his chest, stretching the muscles in his back that supported his injured shoulder. He breathed out through his nose and she gently brought his arm down and across his ribs when his fingers began shaking.

“All right. It could be worse, John, but you need to keep up with the physical therapy. Don't be a dolt,” she tapped him on the nose.

His ears flushed red and he stammered, “M-m-my shirt?”

Sherlock was at his side immediately. John chose the button down and Sherlock helped him into it with great care.

“Do you want me to write you a prescription for something?”

“No, no, it's truly not that bad,” John said more for Sherlock's benefit than his own. Frankly he felt he may be drinking a bit more in the coming weeks dealing with this new, guilt ridden Sherlock and he didn't want to risk mixing the two.

“All right. You two stay out of trouble. I'll write in some vacation days for you John so don't worry about the next two weeks. Sherlock, I know you probably already cataloged everything I just did, but he needs that shoulder rotated at least twice a day. Don't let him tell you otherwise,” she said kissing him on the cheek. He always hated that she did that.

She kissed John on the cheek as well and showed herself out. Sherlock huffed when he heard her close the downstairs door. He looked indignant.

“What's wrong then?” John asked, slightly exasperated.

“What kind of doctor handles a patient with such little care?” he stormed towards the kitchen and cleaned off his uneaten breakfast plate.

“She is an excellent doctor, and everything she did was the right thing to do. I'm just a whiny patient,” John said with exhaustion in his voice, grabbing his laptop with one hand and sitting on the couch cross legged, “Besides, you're the one who texted her, not me.”

“I've never liked doctors,” Sherlock muttered as he cleaned his dish.

“Is that so?” John said with feigned offense in his voice.

Sherlock turned off the water, “You're the exception.”

John quirked a smile as he flipped open his computer, “You like me then? And here I just thought you tolerated me.”

Sherlock set a fresh cup of tea down in front of John in answer to his question.

“Be careful or you'll spoil me,” John smiled up at Sherlock who nearly beamed.

The rest of the day passed as it usually does, John on his laptop working while Sherlock paced, sent texts, fumbled purposefully through papers, and solved dozens of problems that would take others dozens of days to solve. The only difference was he kept his eyes on John with a great deal of consistency, noting every wince, stiffen, sigh. John took some aspirin over the course of the day, but his shoulder was an issue, and Sherlock had noticed it. He was waiting for John to ask for help, but realized that wasn't coming so he instead made a demand.

“Let me stretch your shoulder. You heard what Sarah said, don't bother arguing,” Sherlock said flatly standing in front of John.

“All right,” John seceded easily because the pain was quite growing, “Just go easy.”

“Always,” Sherlock said with no humor in his voice.

He carefully slipped John's arm from the sling and slowly began to mimic Sarah's movements – straightening John's arm and rotating it in growing circles. At the exact moment that the circles became too much for John, and he was about to break and protest, the doorbell rang.

“That will be our dinner,” Sherlock gently released the man and shuffled downstairs.

“When did you order dinner?” John asked nobody as he breathed out with force, letting his shoulder relax and pulled his arm across his ribs.

Sherlock set the brown bag down on the kitchen table pulling John's favorite meal out, yellow tofu curry from the Thai restaurant downtown. He had ordered two, one for himself, even though he didn't intend on eating, and pulled that out as well.

“Sherlock,” John said as a person who didn't deserve a gift would say.

Sherlock said nothing, but slipped the sling over John's head quickly and readjusted his arm until he was certain the smaller man was out of the considerable pain he had been in moments before during the stretching. They sat down at the kitchen table together.

“Sherlock, this will take weeks to heal. Maybe months of pain. I don't want you feeling as though you need to make it up to me every day. We made the decision as a team. You weren't the perpetrator,” John said with finality, “Either we can talk about it more or you can convince me somehow that you're over it.”

“John, if you deliberately tore me down and caused me physical and emotional pain while a madman laughed hysterically at my misfortune would you be 'over it' so quickly as you say?”

“But I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You should be able to get past this. He wants you stuck here, stuck with the guilt.”

Sherlock just shook his head, defeated.

“Right then,” John stood, “Stand up.”

“What?”

“Did I stutter?”

Sherlock's eyes widened suddenly at the commanding tone, and he stood, his heart in his throat for reasons unknown.  
John held his good arm up in a fist and Sherlock crooked his head in surprise, but he met John's eyes and saw the glint of humor there.

“John,” Sherlock said with the weight of 'come on, you're injured, you can't fight me.'

“Don't try to argue, just take your medicine,” John said biting back a smile as he began play punching at Sherlock's stomach.

“John,” Sherlock said again with a chuckle as he backed up a step and buckled at the light jabs that frankly, were tickling him.

“Here come the big guns,” John feigned seriousness as he backed Sherlock against the wall and  
continued to jab at him.

Sherlock held his hands up weakly in surrender, keeping his elbows into his sides as he squirmed under the contact. He felt his face flush as he realized he was backed against the wall.

“All right, you lanky jerk, get down here,” John hooked his arm around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down into a headlock, “If you don't get over it, there will will be more of this, pal, you better believe it! Now say uncle.”

Sherlock couldn't stop his laughing long enough to utter the phrase.

“Don't you forget, Sherlock, I was a soldier,” John said playfully tightening his grip.

Sherlock caught his breath enough to say, “Uncle, uncle!”

Sherlock was chuckling in earnest now and John released him with a light shove and ruffled his hair fiercely. Sherlock stood, face flushed, with a big grin. His shirt was half untucked and his hair disheveled. John was laughing as well.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said as the men caught their breath.

John smiled up at Sherlock, and it was all too much. His best friend, his only friend, could forgive him anything, could even make him feel better when he thought it impossible. John was the gentlest, smartest, most thoughtful man Sherlock had ever met, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with that knowledge.

Without hesitation or rationality, Sherlock put his hand on John's cheek, leaned down, and kissed John gently on the mouth. John made a startled sound, but didn't pull away, even parted his lips slightly and pushed back with the faintest pressure. Sherlock stood upright and found John staring up at him, eyes a touch too wide, head still crooked to the side.

“I'm,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “Sorry, that was, sorry.”

He waved his hand as if to erase the moment.

“No,” John spat out, “No, don't, it's, uh, ok.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, he was trembling faintly and the realization startled him.

John nodded his head seemingly to himself and then stepped forward and caught Sherlock in a kiss of his own, careful not to aggravate the cut on his lip, he took Sherlock's bottom lip between his own. Sherlock's trembling became more pronounced and John put his hand on the back of Sherlock's head, gripping his curls. When he pulled back reluctantly, he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, stilling his trembling.

He licked his lips before saying, “Right then. We should eat?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly. His eyes were smiling, but his lips wouldn't move, the ghost of the kiss clinging to them.

“And you will eat, Sherlock. If you get any thinner I'll be able to actually take you down with one hand,” he smirked and wiggled his fingers in front of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock smiled and crooked his head in a question he couldn't put words to and then moved to sit at the table. John was surprised at himself for handling that as he did. Maybe it was the pain - the kiss was a welcome distraction. He had always imagined it would happen someday, probably as a joke or an experiment. He sometimes let himself hope it would mean something else. In this moment he just hoped it didn't scare Sherlock into solitude or frenzy.

They ate together quietly, and Sherlock did eat, although not very much. He was too busy chatting John's ear off about an old case he had dismissed as solved, but new evidence has made him reopen it. John listened happily, trying hard not to let the overwhelming implications of that kiss drown him. When they had both finished, Sherlock became oddly quiet for a touch too long.

“John,” Sherlock said by way of a question, “Are you gay?”

John felt a flush creep up his neck and he answered as best he could, “I think you know it's not that simple.”

“You're right,” Sherlock did know. He knew all of John's previous girlfriends and his sexual partners. He knew John had made out with men, but never taken it much farther, but he didn't know why. He had educated guesses, but without more data he couldn't make a firm conclusion. He even knew that John was a bit of a sadist, which he felt morally conflicted by as a medical doctor, but it never appeared in his work even the slightest bit. Unless he was tending to Sherlock, and then it was subtle. He wasn't rough, but he wasn't gentle either.

Sherlock stood to clean up their dinner. He thought about the best way to get another kiss out of John without startling the man too much. Then he wondered if startling was actually the best way.

“We should drink,” Sherlock said taking the bottle from Mycroft and opening it with a snap, “and then kiss again.”


	3. Delicacy and Indignance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get hot and heavy.

John coughed and his eyes widened a touch. He was certainly not expecting to hear that.

“That's awfully blunt,” he muttered, flushing.

“Well, once isn't enough to draw any conclusions,” Sherlock said matter of factly.

John sat back in a chair with a grin, “You mean you can't read me?” John paused and then goaded, ”You don't know if it was just a friendly gesture or something more?”

Sherlock thumped the bottle on the counter just a touch too hard in aggravation at being found out, “No, of course -”

“This is marvelous!” John crooned, “For once, I've stumped the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know you enjoyed it, I could see the way your weight shifted as you asked me if we should eat. I know you want to do it again because you kept glancing at my mouth while I ate, and I know that you've kissed other men, but I don't know if you'll do anything more,” Sherlock spat out furiously and clunked the glass down in front of John.

He took a long sip and let the shiver get out of his system before saying, “And you propose to get that answer how?”

“Research,” Sherlock said succinctly.

John was red under the collar and half hard. He wanted to scoot his chair further under the table to conceal this fact, but in doing so he knew he would reveal himself so instead he stayed still with his hand wrapped around his glass.

“And how am I to know if you want anything besides just research?” John asked carefully.

“Come on, John, don't be dull. If I've taught you anything you have already read it all over my body,” Sherlock waved a hand dramatically and finished his drink, pouring another.

John smiled and then asked, “Sherlock are you gay?”

Sherlock answered with a look that said what John had said earlier, 'Of course it's not that simple.'

“Right, let me rephrase,” John tried again, sitting up more straight to will himself to be bold, “Have you been with men?”

“Aside from the occasional experiment when I was younger with both sexes, I haven't been with anybody,” he said in a way that was almost sheepish.

“You're a virgin?” John was skeptical.

“In the most clinical sense of the word, yes,” Sherlock admitted, cursing the shame that crept into his cheeks.

John swallowed a knot in his throat. He was completely hard at this point. It was a pleasant distraction from the pain, but his nerves were on edge. This was undiscovered territory he was treading through. He thought it felt like a mine field.

“That's ok,” he said dumbly.

“I know it's ok,” Sherlock said quickly mimicking the stunted conversation they had at the restaurant.

John finished his drink with a wince as the liquor hit his lip. He watched Sherlock stand at the end of the table, eyes flashing, shoulders tense.

“He didn't plan this you know. This isn't him,” John said definitively.

Sherlock looked at him with a spark of surprise that he had been so easily read.

“How can you be sure?” Sherlock asked.

“He wanted to drive us apart. He wanted you to break me so that it would break you, and you almost let him get you, but he underestimated me,” John said with a wink of confidence and a smile.

Sherlock still didn't look convinced. John stood, careful not to show any pain on his face. This talk of Moriarty had calmed him mostly so he didn't fear getting out from behind the table. He walked towards Sherlock and standing a step too close, poured them both another drink.

“Let's stop talking about him,” he said simply.

“Yes, let's,” Sherlock said looking down at his handsome companion, “You're quite short.”

John scoffed, “You're insulting me? No wonder you're a virgin.”

Sherlock's eyes widened, but John was smiling and Sherlock couldn't help the small smile himself.

“How did you get on in the army?” Sherlock asked as they walked to the living room and sat opposite each other.

“You mean because of my height?”

“Yes. It didn't get in the way?”

“Well, if I'd been any taller, I suppose the bullet would have punctured my lung and I'd be dead. So, I'd say I got on all right,” John said with a dark laugh, but then continued, “I've always been a tough bugger anyway. Harry and I fought all the time. I imagine it was the same for you and Mycroft.”

Sherlock took a sip of his drink and threw his long legs up over the arm of the chair, “Yes, we fought. He was never much of a fighter, but he knew how to manipulate people into doing whatever he wanted, which made his attacks more difficult to anticipate.”

“You mean he'd get people after you? He was building an army even then,” John asked shaking his head at his image of Mycroft as a child.

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled almost fondly and then did a total 360, “Why is it so easy for you to forgive me?”

John's shoulders slumped.

“Not just regarding...recent events. I mean, everything. You forgive everything I do,” Sherlock sounded as though he were talking about the most absurd thing in the world.

“I don't have to forgive it, Sherlock, it's just who you are,” John said simply, “And I accept that.”

Sherlock stood up suddenly and moved in front of John. He threaded his fingers through John's hair and the smaller man closed his eyes and bit back a groan.

“Your transitions are odd,” John said, eyes still closed.

If he opened them he'd be looking directly at Sherlock's crotch. He absently lifted his hand and lay it on Sherlock's hip.

“I'm conflicted,” Sherlock admitted.

John hummed as Sherlock lightly scratched his scalp, “Why's that?”

“Because I want to do things to you, to make you feel better,” he knew he didn't use quite the right words but trusted John would understand and continued, “And I want to let you do...everything to me.”

John shuddered hard at that and stood up too quickly, startling Sherlock back a step.

“You don't have to choose,” his voice was low and dangerous.

He stepped into Sherlock's space and took him into a rough kiss. Sherlock startled back another step and steadied himself with a hand on the chair he'd been sitting in. The other found John's head again as he ducked his shoulders to gain more access to John's mouth. John was an excellent kisser. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a bit more tentative, but the fastest learner John had ever met. He was a perfect student, mirroring and improvising on John's movements. He didn't reciprocate, however, when John caught Sherlock's lip between his teeth and dragged. Sherlock groaned outright and John felt a jolt of electricity down his spine.

“This is dangerous. I don't want to hurt you,” Sherlock said quickly laying a gentle hand on John's slung shoulder.

“Make me another drink, and you won't be able to hurt me,” John said breathlessly.

Sherlock moved quickly to the kitchen and John tried to clear his head. He was trying to remind himself that Sherlock was new at this and no matter what he wanted, he had to go easy. An unfortunate thought thumped into his head.

“Sherlock, does Mycroft have cameras in here?”

“Yes, but I disabled them two days ago. He has eyes on the outside of our apartment, but he can't see in,” Sherlock said quickly as he poured them two more drinks.

“Good, good then,” John said nervously.

Sherlock presented John with a full glass, probably a double. He sipped it carefully, ensuring that his hand didn't shake, and that he felt and accepted the burn of the liquor down his throat. Sherlock sipped his less gracefully, to his own surprise.

“How long, Sherlock?” John asked, taking another sip.

“Since you followed me running through the streets after the cabbie,” Sherlock admitted quickly.

“Christ,” John muttered and took Sherlock into another bruising kiss.

John wrapped his free hand into Sherlock's collar, pulling up and towards himself. Sherlock accepted it with only a moment's resistance. Sherlock's hands rested on John's hips, tentative, for fear of hurting the smaller man in any way.

“Sherlock, we should -” John started breathlessly.

Sherlock took John's hand from his shirt and led him to his own bedroom. He stood in front of the bed awkwardly for a moment. He even scratched the back of his head with his spare hand, lips parted, with nothing to say.

John suddenly shoved him hard down onto the bed. Sherlock made a surprised sound, but lay pliant, expectantly.

“Tell me, Sherlock, talk to me,” John said vaguely.

“John, please,” Sherlock broke on the words, desperate for contact.

John took a deep breath and lifted his drink from the bedside table where he lay it. If he wasn't careful, he would scare Sherlock. He had to slow down. Sherlock looked a bit tense now, beneath John's gaze.

“You can,” Sherlock started, but stopped himself shaking his head.

“I can what?” John asked slowly.

“I'd like it...if you were rough with me. You can be, is all, if you want,” Sherlock said with a rawness to his voice that made John gulp.

For a moment, John silently calculated how Sherlock could possibly know that John liked to be rough in bed, but quickly brushed it away. Sherlock saw this hesitation so he kept talking, as was his style. He propped himself up on his elbows.

“You are gentle with all of your patients. Except for me,” Sherlock explained, “You aren't careless, but you take pleasure in my physical reactions to pain.”

John felt the flush cruise up his cheeks.

“It's okay, Doctor, I enjoy it. If you were delicate with me, I'd be indignant,” Sherlock said with a quirk of a smile.

John relaxed slightly at that, but the thought of having Sherlock at his will was almost overwhelming in its enormity. John had thought about this moment dozens of times, but never expected it to really come true. He also never imagined he'd be bunged up in a sling with a black eye and bruised ribs spearheading the onslaught. Luckily the alcohol was helping to still his fears. Still, he had a few suspicions that needed to be addressed.

“You promise this isn't some backwards attempt at tricking me into hurting you because you gave me a beating?” John said sipping his drink again.

“I promise,” Sherlock said breathily, still leaning up on his elbows.

John took a breath, “Safeword?”

“What?” Sherlock asked with a head tilt.

“What is your safeword? If you say that word, we stop immediately.”

“Oh. Is that really necessary?”

“It really is,” John said with a strength and bite in his voice that made Sherlock shiver almost imperceptibly.

“Um,” Sherlock's eyes flitted back and forth.

“Mycroft,” John offered and Sherlock grimaced, “Exactly. If you say that word it will snap us both out of what's happening.”

“Right,” Sherlock agreed, desperate still for contact, sitting up all the way and looking up at John.

“Say it.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock obeyed.

John hummed and walked to Sherlock's closet, putting more distance between them than Sherlock wanted. Sherlock stood, wondering what John was doing. When John turned around he was wielding the long black riding crop that Sherlock used in his experimentations. Sherlock swallowed audibly.

“John, what-” he started.

“Doctor. You may address me as Doctor. Or Sir,” John said sharply, “Take this sling off of me.”

“Are you sure...doctor?”

“You don't get to question me in here, Sherlock. Not while I've got the crop anyway. Take it off,” he used his best military voice and it straightened Sherlock's neck.

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock offered quietly by way of apology as he gently slipped the sling off of his friend. John kept his arm across his ribs, but he felt less vulnerable free of the sling.

“Better,” John said.

He stepped forward and took Sherlock's mouth in a demanding kiss. Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with his hands, which was endearing, and made John's cock jump a bit. John pulled back suddenly.

“Take your shirt off,” he demanded.

Sherlock began deftly unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off of his lovely shoulders. John pressed the leather of the crop against his chest and guided him back towards the bed until his legs touched the edge. Sherlock almost sat down, but paused when John shook his head.

“You'll stay standing. I want you near the bed in case you buckle,” John explained and then delivered a sharp swat of the crop to Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock grunted and steadied himself, pulling his hands behind his back instinctively, making John nearly swoon. So Sherlock's first sexual experience would be an adrenaline fueled BDSM romp with his flatmate. There it was.

John traced the red mark on Sherlock's chest with the edge of the leather making Sherlock shiver. John could see the outline of Sherlock's sizable cock through his trousers, leaving no doubt that this was what Sherlock wanted. His mouth hung open a touch and there was fear and lust in his eyes.

John took a step back and adjusted his grip on the handle. Sherlock watched his hands carefully, but when he raised the crop, Sherlock instead met his eyes, sending a jolt down John's spine as he brought the crop down quickly two more times. Sherlock winced, but bit back a groan. He hung his head for a moment.

“Eyes on me,” John said and Sherlock snapped his head up immediately.

Another two lashes across his chest, each cutting straight across his nipples, left Sherlock breathing heavily and shaking slightly.

“Remember your safeword,” John reminded Sherlock before delivering two more in the exact same spots as the last two, drawing a high whine from the bigger man. His hands unclasped behind his back and came to his sides, for a moment he considered raising them in a protective gesture, but instead he just clenched and unclenched his fists.

“You're doing so well,” John said and stepped forward, placing the flat of his palm against Sherlock's reddening chest.

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the contact, but pressed forward slightly against the pain. John traced the shallow welts with a fingernail and Sherlock's breathing came in rapid intakes. John could feel him shivering beneath him, and although he wanted to drag these sensations out for as long as possible, he was also dying to free his cock from the confines of his trousers.

“On your knees,” John said and Sherlock was at once bowed before him, “Take my trousers off.”

Sherlock sheepishly began unbuttoning John's pants. John toed his shoes off as Sherlock pulled his trousers down. John stepped out of his pants. His cock was nearly springing free from his boxers.

“Show me how much you respect me, Sherlock,” John said and took a breath, wondering what Sherlock would do with that.

With almost no hesitation, Sherlock tugged John's boxers down and swallowed around John's cock. John gasped and put his good hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself. Sherlock was clumsy and awkward and it was the most amazing feeling John had ever experienced. Sherlock pulled back to take a breath and get a read on John, glancing up at him with a question in his eyes.

“Brilliant. You're doing brilliantly,” John huffed out breathlessly and Sherlock was upon him again at the encouragement, this time with a touch too much enthusiasm, “Teeth, Sherlock!”

“Thorry,” Sherlock mumbled over John's cock, sending a shock through John.

“Sorry, what?” John quickly lay the crop down hard over Sherlock's back.

Sherlock buckled forward, swallowing more of John's cock in a groan, “Thorry, thir.”

John smiled and dropped the crop on the bed to wrap his fingers in those curls. Sherlock keened at the feeling and continued to sloppily swallow around John's cock.

“All right, sunshine,” John said breathily after another moment, stepping back reluctantly.

Sherlock looked up at him, confused, lips wet and swollen. John dug his fingers into Sherlock's hair and tugged him up to standing. Sherlock stumbled to his feet and was met immediately with a kiss, restrained a bit as John needed to cool down or he was going to be finished before he started.

Sherlock met his eyes, looking down at him, and for the first time John didn't feel as though he was being looked down upon by the taller man. He was looking to John for guidance. There was still a hint of fear in his eyes and his right hand was twisting slightly, anxiously.

“You're nervous,” John stated it as fact.

Sherlock wrinkled his eyebrows as though about to deny it, but stilled, adjusted his footing, and replied quietly, “A bit, sir, yes.”

“Good,” John said stepping back, oddly comfortable and militant without his trousers on, “You ought to be.”

Sherlock's eyes widened at that and he swallowed.

“Take your trousers off. I want you naked on the bed,” John demanded quickly.

He would have taken his own shirt off, but he feared that seeing the bruises again would disturb Sherlock and frankly he liked him in the mindset he was currently in. Sherlock hesitated this time, moving his hands towards his zipper and then pulling them back to his sides.

“I can't, sir,” Sherlock said, feeling the crawl of a blush up his neck and into his cheeks.

This was an unusual development. John maintained a neutral demeanor as he deduced what was going on. Sherlock was nervous, that much was obvious, had he never been naked in front of another person? Surely he was feeling a bit vulnerable? Had John been too hard with the crop? Sherlock was avoiding eye contact. John stepped forward and tilted his head towards Sherlock's, forcing their eyes to meet. Another moment, and he was pretty confident he had reasoned Sherlock's hesitation.

“Sherlock, I won't do anything you're not ready for. I won't ask you for anything you can't give. And this is a small request considering you just had my cock between your beautiful lips,” John spoke evenly, and circled his thumb on Sherlock's jawbone. Sherlock looked away again, blushing harder, “Lay down, love. I'll help, will that be better?”

Sherlock nodded slightly into John's hand, “Sweet boy. Lay down now.”

Sherlock obeyed, letting John's words wash over him warmly. John climbed onto the bed. He knelt between Sherlock's legs and ran a hand gently down Sherlock's chest, past his belly button and to the button of his trousers. He popped it open with one hand and pulled the zipper down. He could feel Sherlock's breathing pick up beneath him. He paused, bracing himself with his good hand and leaned down to kiss Sherlock's chest, right over his heart. The strain was a bit much on his damaged ribs and shoulder, but as he felt Sherlock's breathing even out, a surge of pride soothed the aches. His thigh was resting firmly against Sherlock's cock and John was alarmed both at the size and at the jump it drew the man. Sherlock's hand was raised awkwardly over John's back.

“May I touch you, doctor?” he asked quietly.

“Mmm,” John hummed above a kiss to Sherlock's smooth skin.

Sherlock's hand fell gently to John's back, desperate to pull the man closer, but all too aware of his injuries. Sherlock got a sudden desire to flip John onto his back and put his hands all over the smaller man, but he resisted. John sat up with effort, bracing himself on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's hand slid down to his hip. John met his eyes. They looked much calmer, less frantic than moments ago. He took this opportunity to tug Sherlock's trousers down the side of his hip. Sherlock raised his hips and helped the one handed man slip his own trousers off.

“There,” John said, “Not so bad.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly and quirked a smile. John pushed himself up to standing and Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows as he kicked his trousers to the floor.

“You are gorgeous,” John said honestly.

The blush that crept up Sherlock's cheeks was endearing.

“Tell me what you want, Sherlock,” John demanded, lifting the crop absentmindedly and twirling it between his fingers.

Sherlock looked at John and then at the crop and back to John again. He cleared his throat slightly before saying, “I want you to put that away, sir. Please.”

“Oh,” John laughed and tossed it towards the closet, “And?”

“I-I don't know. I want whatever you want. Doctor,” he added.

“I don't think that's entirely true. Besides, you haven't a clue what I want,” lust burned behind John's eyes, “But we've got a lifetime to get to all that. What do you want right now?”

Sherlock thought a moment, “I'd like to make you feel good. I'd like to see you lay down with me. I'd like to put my hands on you.”

“Those are reasonable requests. I'd be happy to oblige,” he said decidedly and lay on the bed next to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled suddenly, startling John a touch, “Whoa,” the smaller man chuckled.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock mumbled before smoothing his hands through John's hair and down his chest gently, “Can I?” his fingers hovered over the buttons.

John hesitated but Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt anyway. John was not looking forward to the shooting pain in his shoulder at disrobing, but Sherlock's fingers soothed him. He practically lifted John to sitting and slid the shirt off without so much as an ounce of pain. Sherlock carefully pressed kisses all along John's chest, crawling down towards his hips. Before John could catch up to what was happening, Sherlock had taken him again in his mouth.

“God,” John sputtered out as he wrapped a hand into the taller man's curls again, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed in response and John jolted, “Christ, I can't last, Sherlock.”

At that Sherlock released John's cock and asked, “Should I stop?”

“No, no,” John spat out.

Sherlock quirked a smile before pulling John's cock into his mouth and sucking with all the enthusiasm he reserved for his most exciting cases. Within seconds John was quaking and groaning.

“Sherlock, I'm going to, I'm going to, FUCK!” John came like a shot into Sherlock's warm mouth.

Sherlock froze for a split second before languidly running his tongue over every inch of John's cock until John had to push him back having ridden the last of the tolerable aftershocks.

“God, oh god,” John muttered, throwing a hand over his eyes.

“That was...sufficient?” Sherlock asked sheepishly.

“That was bloody brilliant,” John spat out, “Come here.”

Sherlock climbed up John's body and lay at his side. John felt his cock hard against his thigh.

“Do you want me to -” he started and licked his lips without thinking.

“No,” Sherlock said too quickly, “Not, not this time.”

“All right,” John understood, “Here then, kneel over me. Just don't, collapse on me.”

Sherlock climbed over John, bracing himself with his hands by John's head. John gently took Sherlock's cock between his practiced fingers at the same moment he took Sherlock's mouth in for a kiss. Sherlock flinched and his breathing sped up.

It didn't take long for him to cum, screaming John's name into his mouth as he did so. Sherlock collapsed besides John, taking huge gulps of air into his lungs. He was shaking slightly.

“Good boy,” John said, taking Sherlock's hand into his own and entwining their fingers.

This stilled Sherlock's shaking.

“I believe I am quite drunk,” Sherlock said randomly.

John broke into a fit of laughter at that, “Well then, I hope I didn't take advantage of you.”

“Quite the opposite I'm afraid,” Sherlock noted.

“Don't try to turn this around,” John said defensively, “I haven't got any welts on my chest.”

Sherlock sat up on one elbow and looked down at John's bruised ribs.

“Right, well, that doesn't count,” John said, “Will you get me a towel?”

“Oh,” Sherlock suddenly felt ashamed and sprung to his feet a touch too quickly, stumbling towards the door. John chuckled. He returned in a moment and gently cleaned John's stomach and chest, and oh look, his shoulder, too. John scooted towards the top of the bed as Sherlock pulled down the covers. Sherlock climbed into bed next to John, all limbs and drunkenness. John chuckled.

“What now? We cuddle?” Sherlock asked with a laugh on his tongue.

John smiled, “My dear Sherlock. We sleep.”


	4. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. 
> 
> This is as far as I've gotten. I may call it here unless there's an interest in reading more.

John woke with a pained “Oomph!” as Sherlock sleepily flopped his heavy arm across John's bruised ribs. John hissed and shoved Sherlock's arm away, only to be met with another absent landing back on his ribs.

“Sherlock!” John choked out and Sherlock sat up in a daze.

“Huh- wha- John?”

“You're whacking my ribs, you gotta back off, pal,” he said softly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock scooted back and then sort of froze, staring sleepy eyed over at his best friend, the events of last night seeping back into his consciousness. John had closed his eyes again. Sherlock raised a hand to his chest and felt the heat of the welts. His breathing picked up without his consent and the confused expression on his face was questioning this bodily betrayal in the form of panic.

“Sherlock?” John said urgently, feeling the tension radiate across the bed. He opened his eyes and alarm filled his exhausted body, “Sherlock, what is it?”

Sherlock could only shake his head dumbly from side to side, a hand still clasped to his marked chest.

“Okay, hey – umph,” John sat up a bit with effort, “It's okay, Sherlock.”

Without much thought he ran his hand through Sherlock's curls and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Calm down,” he offered gently, “Take a deep breath.”

Sherlock did as he was told, feeling the panic settle deeper into his chest.

“Sh-shower, I need a shower,” Sherlock spat out and pushed himself out of bed, eyes flashing back and forth quickly.

“Fuck,” John smashed his palm against his forehead as Sherlock escaped, “What have I done?”

John sat in expected pain for a few minutes deciding whether or not to follow him. Ultimately, he decided to go after him, fearing that if left alone for too long with his own thoughts, Sherlock would be in worse shape. John had never seen him panic before, and if it got worse when he showed up, John decided, he would back off.

“Sherlock? I'm coming in,” John knocked loudly on the bathroom door.

Sherlock was already in the tub, standing under the warm water with his head hung. His breathing appeared to even out somewhat, John noted silently. He glanced at himself in the mirror and thought, christ, I need a shower as well. Boldly, he kicked off his boxers and opened the shower curtain. Sherlock didn't flinch.

“Right, I'm coming in. To the tub, now,” John said dumbly, unsure of whether Sherlock was even listening to him, “You're all right you know? We're all right.”

“You must be cold,” Sherlock said quietly and stepped to the side of the spray to let John get himself wet, “I've never showered with another person. I don't know the etiquette.”

“If you did, you wouldn't adhere to it anyway,” John said relishing in the water on his shoulder and face, “Everything is just fine, Sherlock. Although I'd like to offer you more specific reassurances if you'd be so kind as to tell me why you panicked -”

“I did no such thing,” Sherlock said indignantly looking down on his wet friend, who glanced up at him, blinking water off of his eyelashes. Sherlock resisted the urge to bend down and kiss them. John resisted the urge to run his fingernails across Sherlock's bruised chest.

“You were speechless, your muscles froze, and your heart rate increased before you fled the scene,” John said critically, playing to Sherlock's observational style.

Sherlock only grunted and squeezed an unnecessary amount of shampoo into his hand before massaging it into John's scalp. John hummed in unexpected joy at the sensation, pushing down the grumblings that threated his fragile masculinity.

“That's nice, Sherlock, thank you,” John said sincerely.

“It seemed appropriate,” Sherlock said flatly.

John dipped his head back under the spray because what he planned on doing next he wanted to do without the added image of soap bubbles. John reached his good arm up and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's wet curls. He leaned up and kissed him firmly, reassuringly on the lips. John leaned back and said, almost like an order, “Nothing is wrong, Sherlock. We are okay.”

“Yes,” he replied breathily, “I see that we are.”

“Okay, good. That's established. We, are okay. But are you?” John asked, shifting so that Sherlock was under the showerhead and casually squirting shampoo into his own hand.

“I already did-” Sherlock began before John reached up and began massaging Sherlock's scalp with his practiced fingers. Sherlock almost moaned against his better judgment, but said nothing.

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” John said gently, massaging small circles right behind Sherlock's ears, almost holding his head in his hands.

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed John to sooth him with his fingertips. He speaks quietly and John strains to hear him over the spray of water.

“So much of that, I've never experienced. The realization of what I had done...I just felt pinned for a moment, is all.”

“Pinned? Like a bug?”

“If it helps you to use an inane simile than yes, pinned like a bug,” Sherlock grumbled.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I made a mistake last night,” and almost before the words left his lips Sherlock shot him a look of complete shock.

“Last night was a mistake?” Sherlock repeated indignantly, grabbing John by the wrists and putting as much distance between them as he could in the small shower.

“Christ, Sherlock, no. Last night was not a mistake. I made ONE mistake last night. Will you just listen to me for a second?” John boldly finished scrubbing Sherlock's scalp and shoved his head less than gently back under the spray. Sherlock was listening, “After that sort of, activity, play, sex, whatever you want to call it, the person who is dominating or delivering the abuse should take care of their partner. We were both so tired and a bit drunk...and I was just so wrapped up in it all that I guess I forgot. Or took you for granted.”

“What do you mean, take care of?” Sherlock asked feeling slightly embarrassed.

“Whatever you needed. I should have taken you to the shower, tended to your wounds, told you reassuring things. I shouldn't have just let you fall asleep with the weight of it all prepared to hit you when you woke up,” he admitted.

“Well. It's not too late is it? We are in the shower now. And you've already seen to my hair,” Sherlock spoke shyly and it made John's heart ache.

John smiled and planted a kiss on Sherlock's wet lips. John picked up a face cloth and liberally applied soap to it. With one hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder, he gently cleaned Sherlock's chest, ignoring the scream that his own shoulder gave at the work. Sherlock hissed quietly and closed his eyes.

“Turn,” John said.

“You aren't holding the crop anymore. You can't just boss me around,” Sherlock teased lightly.

“Sherlock, would you please turn around?”

Sherlock quirked a smile and did as he was asked. John cleaned his back gently. The red line across his back barely visible, but John tended to it as though it weren't.

“Was there anything about last night,” John paused, “that you wouldn't do again?”

Sherlock's shoulders tensed slightly and he hesitated to turn around.

“Is this part of your 'taking care of' session?” he said twisting around slowly.

“I'm just asking,” John said, “For future reference. If you want there to be a future.”

“Obviously I do,” he thought a moment, “I would do it all again.”

There was a note of silence that John felt ought to be filled.

“Except?”

“No exceptions.”

“Why were you so afraid to take your trousers off?”

“I was not afraid,” Sherlock said too quickly.

John turned the water off and pushed the curtain aside. He pulled a towel from the rack and tossed it atop of Sherlock's head. Meanwhile, John waited for Sherlock to explain as he dried his hair off with one hand.

“I was confused, is all,” Sherlock said, “About what was coming next.”

“Oh. Did you expect I would want to-” John started carefully.

“I didn't know. I like to know what to anticipate. I was not afraid. Just,” he paused and pushed the word out through his teeth as though he were mad at the word itself, “uneasy.”

John hummed through the towel.

“What are you so happy about?”

“I can't imagine that there are many people in this world that have the capacity to make you nervous,” John said with a smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I thought you were supposed to be telling me reassuring things, not taking a piss.”

“Sorry, sorry,” John chuckled as he dried off, leaving his hair in such adorable disarray that Sherlock didn't bother resisting the urge to scratch behind John's ear. John just smiled wider, “Let's go back to bed for a bit.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, “You want to cuddle.”

“I want to lay down. I want you nearby. If we were touching, I wouldn't complain,” John said carefully.

Sherlock looked pensive.

“I'll come back to bed, but first you will let me stretch your shoulder.”

John sighed, but nodded. Sherlock took great care in this routine, and John bore it like the soldier he was. He only winced once and Sherlock froze, he thought he was being careful.

“You just tickled me, that's all,” John said, “Next time I'll wear a shirt,” he brushed Sherlock's thumb out from the underside of his bicep near his armpit.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up.

“To bed?” Sherlock asked, but it wasn't a question.

Sherlock led the way, climbing under the covers smoothly, all limbs and lines. John moved around the bed and climbed under on the other side. Sherlock was laying flat on his back, with his hands woven together on his chest. He was staring at the ceiling. John lay on his own back, but scooched over so that there shoulders were touching.

“You are a difficult man to comfort,” John said pointedly.

“You find yourself comforting many men?” Sherlock was being fresh.

John scoffed, and decided that maybe even in this recovery Sherlock needed the control taken from him. He rolled onto his side and pressed his knees against Sherlock's legs until they bent up. With a hand on Sherlock's shoulder he rolled him onto his side. His hand slid down to Sherlock's hip until he dragged Sherlock up against him, flush. Sherlock felt rigid at first, but quickly relaxed under John's practiced comforting hand. It was a strong presence against Sherlock's chest, causing a dull heat to rise to the surface above the welts. Sherlock only pressed into John's hand more.

“Good boy,” John muttered, kissing into Sherlock's curls. Sherlock relaxed even more into the sentiment. He liked when John treated him like the younger, more inexperienced man that he was, but hell if he would admit it.

“I'm not uneasy anymore,” Sherlock said instead, matter-of-factly.

“We could change that,” John said with a sharp pinch to Sherlock's sensitive nipple.

Sherlock hissed and pulled further against John's chest, feeling his cock swell at the pain. Sherlock quickly flipped over so he was face to face with John. He planted a firm kiss on John's lips and then lightened up, languidly pressing his lips against John's, lulling John into calm. As John sunk deeper into the kiss, Sherlock gently lay his hands on John's chest to a contented sigh from John. Sinking deeper still, Sherlock chose that moment to firmly pinch both of John's nipples drawing a surprised yelp from the smaller man.

“Eee! Sherlock!” John shrieked with a laugh, helplessly pushing at the other man's chest.

Sherlock twisted roughly with a smile still against John's lips.

“Ah!” John yelped again and tried, “Mycroft!”

“We never did get around to discussing your safe word. That one is mine,” Sherlock said with a final, painful twist, before releasing John.

“Oh, you will pay for that young man,” John said fiercely.

By now Sherlock was leaning over John, nearly pinning him to the mattress. Liking the role reversal, Sherlock was reluctant to give John a leg to stand on.

“You just try,” he said with bite and a smirk.

John's eyes widened at the challenge, and if he weren't still feeling the pains of the beating he took the other day, he would have flipped Sherlock so fast he wouldn't know which way was up.

“You'll have to wait until I'm back at 100%, but then you should most certainly be nervous,” John said with the command in his voice that he used last night, sending a chill up Sherlock's spine.


End file.
